


Yore

by deanxi



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Past Child Abuse, Pregnancy, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanxi/pseuds/deanxi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth Greene wants a baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

[](http://s296.photobucket.com/user/eekimkee/media/article-2538761-1A8D176100000578-820_634x832_zpsoluyvfyu.jpg.html)

There's a very real price to pay for those who live in the apocalypse. Doesn't matter if you're rich or poor, black or white, young or old. The price is always the same, and the stakes are high no matter who you are, or what your story is.

The price isn't death, as you might be expecting. Death, dying—that just means it all gets to end. It's absolution. No one is invincible, though there are those who like to try convince themselves otherwise. Death is ingrained in our very species from the moment we exit the womb. The clock starts and if you're lucky it doesn't stop, not for a while, anyway, not until you've crossed off your bucket list or settled down, had two kids, built a white-picket fence, gotten to enjoy your apple pie and lived a little bit of the American dream.

No, the price is something far more sinister than death, something that many of us go our whole lives without experiencing.

The price is pure, unadulterated fear.

And this is a different kind of fear, a fear that's poles apart from that what's felt when tragedy strikes in the everyday rat-race of life: when your seven year-old child who walks home from the bus stop every day never makes it back and you think god, what if they've been kidnapped? Or when an earthquake or tornado strikes and the plates in the cupboard rattle and the wind outside howls like a savage beast, and you think this is it, I'm going to die. It's a fear far different than when you get that call—your sister, your brother, your mother or your wife—hit by a car, had a heart attack, fell down the stairs, gunned down at the bank. It's always the same and never different. These kinds of fears can be categorized, and when all is said and done, grief sets in, and that can be categorized too, put into five neat little stages, à la Kübler-Ross, M.D.

There are no neat, pragmatic stages for the grief felt by young Beth Greene.

There are no stages because that pure, unadulterated fear? _It never. Goes. Away_. It's a constant sense paranoia that only grows more and more the longer you keep living. And Beth knows this better than anybody, because Beth Greene has survived, and she has been torn apart—over and over and _over_ again by the end of the world. And the thing is, even though she can never really get used to it, she has to pretend that she is.

She has to, because how else is she supposed to cope?

How else are you supposed to cope when in reality you've had to witness your own mother come back to life only to be shot in the head? Or when you've seen your family-friend get torn to shreds by a Walker right in front of your very eyes. How else can you cope when you've seen woman and children sobbing in red-pink snow, bones twisted at angles they shouldn't be, and they're begging for help even though there's nothing for you to do but watch as one of your group-members stands above them and loads a bullet into their skull. Make it quick, put 'em out of their misery before you can start to think too hard and heavy about the ramifications of it all, about playing God in someone else's life.

Later you come back to salvage what you can, and then you and a few others dig a mass grave. And as the jab of your shovel hits the rock-hard cold earth and sends vibrations up your arm, and it starts to snow anew and it's too quiet save for the metal thud of your shovel, that's the worst part, that's hell, because you can't help but think about how they were put down like a dog just so they'd stop hurting, so they wouldn't become one of the walking dead.

Another lost life, another grave without a headstone. (Someone might fashion a cross out of two skinny sticks and some twine or thread if there's a moment to spare. Usually there isn't.)

And how else are you supposed to cope after the _bodies?_ So many dead bodies. You lose count after a while.

And the thing is, you never really get used to it, but you pretend that you do. You have to, if you want to survive. You can laugh and tell jokes and sing until your voice is raw, but it doesn't change the fact that you're a different person now, or that you get flashbacks when you least expect them, flashbacks that leave you paralyzed and for a few sickening heartbeats turn the world black and gray around you, noise and sound canceled, until somebody says your name a few time or rouses you with a hand on your shoulder. And it doesn't change the fact that in the dead of night you wake up gasping, seeing rivulets of blood, and it's so real you can taste it. Even after you brush your teeth there's still copper beneath your tongue and coating your throat, and no amount of water will chase away that taste.

You're forced to cope, then you don't because you can't, and life moves inexorably on.

But things are different now, for Beth. Things are different because she can slowly feel the strands of desperation winding itself around her gut.

She realized, as she lay on the bunk in her cell, that she didn't want to just cope anymore—she wanted to _live_. And in the weeks that followed this revelation, time was as unforgiving as it had always been. Beth's behavior had changed little. She remained active around the prison and helped with every chore, story-book-time and food preparation, but in the presence of her family, she had become withdrawn and reserved. She found ways to put up barriers and fought constantly with her sister.

It wasn't until she was holding sweet little Judith Grimes that she understood what she needed.

It had been a brisk day outside—even despite the cloudless, egg-shell blue sky and the sun's bright rays. She'd been dressed warmly, curled up in the corner of her cell with Judith tucked tightly in her arms, the two-month old dozing after just being fed from her bottle. It was moments like these that she reveled in, because in these moments, she was could pretend that the little girl in her arms was her own and that she was safe and sound back in her small town of Senoia. Beth had always wanted to be a mama—she used to have dreams of getting married in her daddy's barn and living in a comfortable two-story house with a red door and white shutters. She dreamt of having a handsome, hard-working husband, four kids, and planned on teaching music lessons on the weekdays. It was a pretty little picture, a life that would've been easy to obtain in the old world.

But things were different now, and that sort of life was as impossible as any other. In the end, Judith wasn't her baby, and eventually Carol would come to take the child away and Beth would be left alone in her cold, gray cell with nothing but her journal to keep her company. And it was in these moments of loneliness that she slowly began to unravel. Desperation, she would come to find, could lead you down very, very dark paths. Desperation could make you think of things you otherwise wouldn't have considered in a million years.

She wasn't sure exactly where the idea came from, as it was so bizarre and out-of-character—but at the time, she saw no other option, no other way to make her dreams come true and to fill that gap in her aching stomach. It was selfish, but in those moments she couldn't quite think straight about the ramifications of it all.

A baby.

Bethany Ann Greene wanted a baby—her own little life that she could raise and love and protect all her own. And she knew it was selfish, to her family, to the baby, but she couldn't find it in herself to pay attention to that little voice in her ear whispering frantically, _'stop, be patient, think about it, talk to your daddy.'_ She couldn't and she wouldn't.

Beth Greene wanted baby.

And she would have one, no matter what anyone else said.

All she had to do was find a father.


	2. Chapter One

[](http://s296.photobucket.com/user/eekimkee/media/article-2538761-1A8D176100000578-820_634x832_zpsoluyvfyu.jpg.html)

Time felt as if it had slowed to a glacial-paced drip.

Beth had barricaded herself in her cell, seeking solace in the comfort of the dark, concrete walls. She hadn't ventured out that day—save for a two-hour break to do laundry while Carol watched Judith—and consequently spent the morning and late-afternoon sitting on an uneven lump of blankets and pillows with her back propped against the corner wall while the baby slept beside her. The empty blackness around her was bliss and allowed her to simmer in her thoughts in peace.

Beyond the confines of her cell, the prison occupied the soul of a morgue: somber, depressed, and with a silence so absent that it rivaled the dead. She listened for the telltale shouts of one of her group-members, or the laughter of the new Woodbury people, but neither could be heard. In fact, the only noise she did hear was her father occasionally shuffling about in his cell beside her—he sounded like he might be getting up for the day. Sometimes the bed would squeak with his weight, other times she'd hear the cell-door open or the sound of his heavy footsteps on the concrete. She listened for a long time, her ear pressed against the wall of her room, where he moved just on the other side.

It wasn't long after when she heard his cell-door shut and his boots slowly thunking down the stairs. So he was leaving, probably to take a lap around the prison. Beth turned her ear away from the wall and sighed, thinking about what she was about to do, about what her father's reaction would be once everything was said and done. She could feel guilt starting to slither its way up her spine, but she quickly pushed it down—now was not the time to back out.

The following few weeks had passed in slow succession. Winter died away with a final gasp of icy winds and dead leaves. Spring, however, bought forth all manner of new life. Animals waking up made hunting easier and the warmer winds bought fresh growth to Rick's farm.

And as the days slowly warmed and the ground began to thaw, Beth had been busy studying the men residing in the prison.

Finding a father had been more difficult then Beth had anticipated. There was steady lack of males close to her age, a fact that was blatantly obvious, and an even fewer amount that she wanted as a partner.

In the end, she wasn't just looking for someone to knock-her-up. She wanted someone who could become her companion, someone who would love their child as much as she would. Someone who could help protect the baby and keep them safe. It wasn't about emotional ties or romantic feelings—it was about survival.

The truth of the matter was, Beth had never been a good fighter. How could she be? No one had taken the time to teach her how to survive on her own. And although she may have spent a few months out in the woods while trying to find the prison, it didn't change the fact that she was constantly being watched over and protected by the other group-members.

She was five-foot-nothing and all of ninety pounds when soaking wet, with a heart full of gold that was much bigger than it ought to be, and no self-preservation skills. With her porcelain skin, bird bones, and wrists so delicate it looked like a stiff breeze would shatter them, she was the type of girl that looked like she should be wrapped in cotton wool—protected.

Beth believed, in her heart, that she was stronger then that. But the others didn't. And though she felt somewhat hardened from the continuous nightmares life had thrown at her, Beth was still more vulnerable then the other prison dwellers. At seventeen, she was still just as small as she had been before the turn, possibly smaller from the lack of food, and she still knew little about surviving outside the walls. If something happened, she needed a man who could help protect their child—someone who could fight, someone who was strong, someone who could _survive_.

And the answer to her prayers came in the form of a dirty redneck covered in walker-guts and animal blood.

Daryl Dixon.

The man was almost catlike—standoffish and watchful to the point of extremity, as if the world would trounce him if he took his eyes off it for even a second. His moods could also be very precarious. Some days he acted as if he wished for the entire prison to drop dead, yelling and cursing and throwing things about. He could be frightfully mean, mean in the way he looked at you, and how dark his eyes got. Sometimes even the simplest of words pierced like bullets—his voice could do that to you, and she didn't think he even really tried.

He had this anger rumbling in his belly, always bubbling within him, and she could tell by his temper. He could swallow his words and bury them deep, but that didn't mean they didn't spew from his mouth whenever the fury became too much.

Other times, however, there were moments where he was so utterly patient and gentle that it rendered her unable to speak. She remembered back in the forest, how he would sometimes find berries and show them to her and Carl, saying something along the lines of, _don't eat these 'less you wanna shit out blood for a month_. Small offerings of solidarity like those showed Beth that there was good in the man.

And over the last year-and a-half, he had shown it time and time again—saving her sister and Glenn from the Governor, protecting the prison morning and night, bringing back meat and supplies to keep their stomachs full and make their lives more comfortable. He was protector, through and through. A man made to survive.

And he was exactly what she needed.

Closing her eyes, Beth let her body curl like a crescent moon in the darkness of her cell, head nestled against the wall as she listened to Judith's quiet breaths.

She would talk to him tomorrow.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The hot rays of the sun beat down on the back of Beth's neck and legs as she made her way across the prison yard. She could see Daryl kneeling beside one of the vehicles they had picked up from outside the walls, a white Toyota, and as she neared her heart began to drum faster within her chest, anticipation coursing through her.

Taking a moment to look around her, Beth could see her daddy and Rick in the crops, studying the growing vegetable patch. Her sister was outside the fence as Glenn stood watch a few feet behind her—the water pump had gotten clogged again and Maggie was cleaning it out. She saw Tyreese and Michoone up in towers, on watch, and most of the other able adults were down by the fences, picking off the walkers building up there. It was eerily silent, save for the moans and groans coming from the geeks at the fence.

She took a deep breath and quickened her pace.

When she was only a few feet away, Daryl raised his head, looking up at her blankly through a mop of brown hair.

Beth's stomach jumped in pit of her belly then, and for a moment, she was without breath.

Daryl, who was clearly a lot older than herself, had a thin, gaunt face, his lips pulled tight into it's usual frown. His eyes—a deep, troubled blue—looked as if they had seen all the horrors of the world and then some. He was handsome though, in a rugged sort of way. With his broad shoulders and striking features, and Beth knew he attracted both the attention of the giggling teenage girls and adult women from Woodbury. Yet he never mentioned ever having a girlfriend, or talked to the girls around the prison, or had any pictures of woman in his cell (except for once when she had found an old, dirty magazine under his bed while searching for laundry, and in a moment of panicked embarrassment, had thrown it back and scurried out of his cell).

Beth shook away the memory and let her gaze roam lower, taking in his toned frame. He was kneeling below her, fixing the tire on the truck. She watched the sweat from his neck drip beneath the collar of his shirt, where she imagined it sliding between sharp shoulder blades.

Beth dared a small step closer as he began to eye her with a bit more curiosity.

"Hey," she said softly, a little unsure of herself. She swallowed, not sure why she was felt so shy and timid. It wasn't like her at all, and she wondered why she found it so hard to form words. Pushing back a strand of hair, she summoned the courage to speak. "Do you need any help?" She bit her lower lip and waited for him to respond.

He eyed her disheveled appearance for a few moments, the space behind his eyes entirely empty. His gaze roamed over her flushed cheeks, her dirty, green tank top and drooping curls, lastly settling on her bright blue-eyes that were blinking at him from beneath black lashes. She bowed her head to the ground under his scrutiny, feeling her cheeks turn pink as she desperately tried to control her racing heart.

After a long moment, he finally grunted.

Beth let out a quiet sigh of relief and moved closer, kneeling beside him and leaning her weight against the cool metal of the truck. He watched her from the corner of his eye, stiffening when her skin accidentally brushed against his, and the two of them sat in silence for a considerable amount of time.

But Beth was never one to keep quiet for long—especially when it came to something so serious.

"Judith's takin' a nap right now," Beth began. "So I got a bit of free time before she wakes up." Twisting her hands in her lap, she stared up at the sky. A group of geese squawked noisily in the bright, continuous blue above, and she watched them until they disappeared from sight. "I don't got much to do though," she trailed off uncertainly, not sure what to say next. Daryl had to be a good decade or two older than her, that much was obvious, and Beth got the feeling he didn't want to talk to her. Even so, she summoned the hope that had buried itself deep within her chest and dared to ask one more question. "I was actually wonderin' . . . if I could talk to you about somethin' private? Tonight?"

His hands stilled.

He twisted to look at her, cheeks flushed and hot, sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead. At first, he seemed unsure by the prospect, but she could faintly see something flicker in his eyes—anxiousness, maybe? Excitement? Fear?

The emotion, whatever it was, quickly passed though before she could quite figure it out and she watched as he awkwardly shifted on his knees, pulling out a red rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands.

"'Bout what?" he inquired, his head tilted to the side.

Beth swallowed at the sound of his raspy voice. She suddenly feared that he could see inside her and sense what she was up to. Nervous butterflies began to settle in her stomach because of it, their imaginary wings flapping around her intestines and making her squirm.

"Just . . . meet me in the library tonight?" she asked quietly, not meeting the older man's eyes. "I'll be there after dinner, after Judy's in bed."

She saw him nod out the corner of her eye and her shoulders slumped in relief.

Letting her eyes flicker back to his, she gave him a wide grin.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Beth had always been good at lying.

When she was six, she had once blamed the family dog in a moment of panic when her mother realized that her favorite makeup brushes had gone missing. Beth explained that Spot had snuck into her parent's bathroom and jumped up onto the counter and ate them. Her mother was easily convinced of the story, and later that night Beth retrieved the stained brushes from her art box and buried them deep in the trash. They hadn't made very good paintbrushes for her art easel, anyway. Spot, bless his soul, had then been sent to another family.

Since blossoming into adolescence though, Beth had come to learn that honestly was much easier then fabricating a lie. Her family had always been fervent church-goers, and her daddy's values soon became her own. She knew now that lying would only bring trouble in the long run, especially now when it involved a baby, and she didn't want Daryl to resent her if she tried to tie him down into a relationship he didn't want to be in. They needed to be partners in this. They both needed to be on the same page.

And, in all truth, she was scared to lie to him. Daryl was angered easily, and he sometimes acted rashly and on impulse. It was a rare occurrence these days, but his calm, cool, and collected demeanor could shatter in only an instant if he was angered enough.

Beth, of course, wasn't expecting him to say yes right away—in fact, she wasn't really counting on him saying yes at all. But he was her only option. She didn't want any of the other men, because in all honestly, they were weak in comparison. Daryl Dixon was made for the apocalypse. And she knew he would make an excellent father. She could see it in the way he held Judith like she was made of the most precious china, could see it in the way he taught Carl how to be a man, could see it every day when he provided the prison with more food and supplies without ever asking for anything in return.

She was going to be honest with him, because he deserved that.

She only hoped he wouldn't think she'd lost her mind.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

It was dark in the library—save for the candle Beth had snatched from the kitchen—and the light from the flame bounced off the shelves of books, creating strange, distorted shadows on the walls. She stared at the vase of flowers, that had been picked by the Woodbury children, sitting on the table in front of her. The petals seemed to tremble along with her fingers.

Fifteen-minutes had passed since Beth put Judith to bed and there was still no sight of Daryl.

She felt like she'd been shot with a heavy dose of adrenaline—her knees bouncing up-and-down, her hands wringing together, the pulse in her neck pounding so hard she thought it would break through her skin. The longer time dragged on, the more anxious Beth felt.

_Was he even going to show up?_

Beth gulped and felt her hopes collapse like a wilted flower. Why did everything always turn out against her favor these days? She didn't understand it. She wanted a baby so badly. She needed the experience of being a mother and raising a child, and she needed it now, because who knew if she was going to be alive tomorrow? With the way the world was now, there wasn't enough time to sit back and wait for life to give you things—you had to go out and get them yourself.

If Daryl didn't meet with her, everything would be ruined. Beth was convinced that she'd never have a child if tonight didn't go as she'd planned. Nobody in the prison was her age—save for the few older boys were always slacking off in their cells and were only looking for a piece of tail to take to bed—and in that moment, sitting in the dark silence of the library, she felt so utterly alone.

When another fifteen-minutes passed, Beth felt her entire body slump with the weight of her desolation. _He's not going to come_ , she thought, the back of her eyes beginning to itch with the revelation. She slowly turned in her seat, ready to leave the library and go back to her cell where she could curl up in her bed and pretend to be okay.

However, when she looked up, she let out a startled gasp at the sudden shadow that had appeared before her. It took her a few moments to realize who it was, but when she did, she let out a breath of relief.

"You came," she whispered, suddenly ecstatic. She smiled at him, her eyes full of warmth.

Daryl shrugged, and it was almost imperceptible. The fringe of his hair hid his eyes from Beth's view. "'Said you wanted to talk," he grunted.

Beth nodded, her grin softening. "Yeah, I did."

Though Daryl was somewhat intimidating in his stature, he appeared to be more nervous than she was. In his usual worn jeans, flannel shirt and leather biker vest, he shifted from foot-to-foot uneasily. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and he peering down at her with dark, wary eyes. Silence lingered between them, heavy and thick in the semi-darkness. They had a poor excuse for a curtain drawn, and sitting on a small crate beneath the library window was another candle that cast a soft, muted glow.

For a few moments, Beth struggled to find the right words to fill the quiet—but in the end decided to just speak from the heart. Now was the time to be honest.

She slowly rose from her seat, but paused when her legs straightened, not moving for what felt like a very long time. The room was still.

She felt Daryl's presence behind her, and after a moment she turned to face him fully—he was leaning against the wall, staring. His gaze was penetrating.

"Do you ever think about your mama?"

Daryl's lips tightened. "What?"

"I mean . . . do you ever think that if you had . . . loved her more, maybe she wouldn't have died?"

His frown deepened, as did the crease between his brows when they drew together. He remained silent.

"Because sometimes I think . . . maybe if I would've spent more time with my mama, or if I had been there before things got bad . . . maybe she would still be here." The silence that followed her confession was deafening. She felt as if the pale flowers on the table had all wilted, that their vines had become so deprived of oxygen that they had shriveled up and died, no longer able to bear the weight of their beautiful roses. "Sometimes I think about how I won't ever see her smile again, or hear her laugh. She won't see me or Maggie grow up. She won't . . . won't tell me how much she loved me today."

She tried to meet his stormy gaze then, but quickly learned that she was no match for him. His dark eyes didn't just look at her, they looked through her. She felt like she was being measured, sized up for something. Timid under his scrutiny, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before she worked up the courage to continue.

"But then sometimes, I'm glad she died. She got to live a happy life, ya' know? She finished high school and went to collage. She got married and had kids and died with her family all around her, holding her hands. She never had to see what the world would become." Beth paused again, and when she spoke, her voice was low. "Sometimes . . . I'm jealous of her."

Another beat of silence. Daryl shifted uncomfortably.

"That it?" He asked. And had it been anyone else, Beth would have found the question rude.

"No," she swallowed and averted her eyes to the floor, wrapping her arms around her middle as she observed the ground in great detail. Counting to three in her head, she swallowed down the dry patches in her throat and blinked, looking back up to say, "Daryl, I want you to put a baby inside me."

Beth's eyes darted back and forth between Daryl's, gauging his reaction.

He stood stiff, rigid, and straight-backed, with eyes so wide she was afraid they would pop right out of his skull. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking like a fish out of water as he tried to summon words back into his brain. If Beth thought he looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now—hands clenching and un-clenching at his sides, feet shuffling, body hunched.

Beth licked her lips as she waited for a reaction, desperate to know what he would say.

Finally, he spoke, his voice sounding strained. " _'Scuse me?_ "

"I said—"

He immediately cut her off and took a few steps back, "Girl, I heard you. Shit, don't repeat it, _Jesus Christ_."

"Why not?"

Daryl stared at her, incredulous. "That ain't . . . ya' don't just _ask_ people that."

"Well, I'm askin' you."

"You— _fuck_." He started pacing back and forth in front of her. He was quite obviously panicked, and Beth wished she could calm him, but he didn't seem to want her reassurance. In fact, the anger lacing his anxiety appeared to be directed towards her, if his glare was any indication. "You fuckin' with me?" he hissed.

Beth shook her head, "I'm serious."

He finally stopped pacing, but he stood in front of her agitated. "'The hell's wrong with you, girl? Don't you already got a baby?"

Beth's lips turned into a frown, "Judith ain't my baby, Daryl," she murmured, looking down at her shoes. "No matter how much I want her to be."

"Well I sure as hell ain't given you one," Daryl all but snarled, and she tried not to show how heartbreaking those words were.

"Why not?"

Suddenly, Daryl was stepping into her space, looming over her like a dark shadow. She could smell him, now that he was so close. He was a mixture of sweat, wood, smoke, and an odd scent that Beth didn't understand. She crinkled her nose in distaste but was too terrified to look away. "You 'outta your damn mind?" he asked, voice so sharp she flinched.

"I'm not crazy—"

He cut her off. "You sure? 'Cause you just asked a man who's old enough to be yer' daddy to knock ya' up."

"Daryl—"

"Shit, you even been fucked before?" He paused, waiting for her speak, but all Beth could do was stare down at her boots. Daryl snorted bitterly. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"I've fooled around before, back at the farm with Jimmy," her face flushed with her admission but she lifted her head against the embarrassment, jutting out her chin. "Ain't like I haven't seen nothin'."

"Seein' and doin' are two different things, girl."

Beth's eyes flashed with anger. "Will you stop callin' me that?" she hissed, voice trembling. "I ain't a little girl anymore."

"Sure look like one from where I'm standin'."

Beth cast her eyes to the floor, unnerved and annoyed that he was able to crack her with such little effort. Why did it seem like everything was able to break her these days? Obviously, she was not just small and delicate solely in appearance. The world had deemed her a meek lamb, and that was exactly what she was—the proof was there on her wrist.

Her anger shifted, turning inwards at this loathsome truth. Her arms wrapped around her middle in an unconscious effort to try and hold herself together, as she distractedly blinked back tears and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. It would be beyond mortifying if she started blubbering like the little girl he deemed her to be, but the back of her eyes were itching and her head was beginning to ache with the effort to keep the tears at bay.

A dozen arguments rushed through Beth's mind then, but she couldn't manage to verbalize any of them. Instead, all she could do was stare at the dimming candle light and try to swallow the hard lump in her throat. "If you would just hear me out for five seconds—" she finally managed in a weak voice.

"Ain't nothin' to hear," he grunted, taking a step back. The room was still. "Ya' know, 'bit it selfish if you ask me," Daryl continued after a long moment and Beth's bottom lip trembled. "You remember what happened to, Lori. You really wanna put your daddy and sister through that?"

Daryl's words—while completely true—still felt like a blow to the gut. She tried not to show that it had affected her by keeping her breathing under control, even though her heart was hammering a mad rhythm against her ribcage.

"You don't understand," she grit thought clenched teeth.

"Nah, I don't. Don't think you do 'neither," his voice was softer now, like gravel wrapped in fine layers of silk and satin. When Beth looked up, she saw him turning toward the library door. "You just need'a continue—"

Something inside her snapped.

"Continuing on? Like this?" Her loud tone startled Daryl, and he turned back to look at her. "So, what you're tellin' me is to be bored, and then bored, and then bored again, but this time for the rest of my life? This whole stupid prison is bored! There's no life in it, or color, or fun! It's probably just as well the Walkers are gonna rip down the gate any day now." There were tears in her eyes, and she had to will herself not to cry, not to break down in front of him before she had even started. He opened his mouth to speak, but this time, Beth beat him to it. "So my choice is to continue doin' the same thing day-in and day-out, or to have a child of my own that I can love and take care of and teach! It's not enough to just sit back and wait for death anymore, Daryl! I need to move foreword and grow! And you may call it selfish and childish and _crazy_ —but this is the last thing I have control over in my life. I'm not just some baby-hungry teenager who doesn't understand the risks of a child! I _know_ what's at stake, I _know_ what happened to Lori, I _know_ that it's dangerous. But I'm _not_ a little girl, Daryl Dixon—I know what I want."

By the time she ran out of steam, he was staring at her with a look in his eyes she didn't quite know how to characterize. He was clearly not happy with her—his nostrils were flaring and he was gritting his teeth, but at the very least, she was pretty sure he wasn't going to fly off the handle again.

They stared at each other for a long time, neither one moving.

Daryl finally swallowed, "Why me?" he asked lowly.

Beth took a few steps closer and placed a tentative hand on his his arm. The muscle twitched under her fingers.

"I trust you," she whispered, making sure he could see the honesty in her eyes.

His breath hitched and he ducked his head, shoulders slumping.

He seemed entirely overwhelmed then—fingers shaking, eyes darting back and forth against the floor, breath coming out in pants—but when Beth reached out to him to make sure he was alright, he was already turning, leaving the room without another word.

For a moment, Beth's heart felt like it was made of strings, and each individual thread snapped painfully against her chest as it broke.

She finally let herself cry.


	3. Chapter Two

[](http://s296.photobucket.com/user/eekimkee/media/article-2538761-1A8D176100000578-820_634x832_zpsoluyvfyu.jpg.html)

To say Daryl had never thought about having children would be an unpardonable sin.

Throughout his life, his dreams had always been peppered with images of his girl in the kitchen, ripe with his child. Some days, he would just lay back in his piss-scented bed for hours and down bottles of beer until he couldn't see straight, dreaming about her lounging in a rocking chair and nursing their baby to sleep, singing and smiling at him and letting him watch.

But he had always kept those fantasies under the tightest of wraps—Merle and his buddies would have never let him live it down.

_I want you to put a baby inside me._

In the quiet woods, Daryl paced over the leaf covered ground with tireless persistence. It was growing dark, the sun just barely peeking out from the horizon. He could hear the ever-present cacophony of cicadas and forest animals, but he was so used to the sounds that they barely registered in his mind. His hands were shaking, he realized, and he stuffed them into the pockets of his pants, pretending that he hadn't noticed. Sweat beaded on his brow and at the nape of his neck, his heart racing and mouth dry.

He swallowed and clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.

_I want you to put a baby inside me._

Those nine words continued to ring though his mind—over and over and over again—until his hands were suddenly clutching at his scalp with painful intensity. He wanted to draw blood. He wanted to bleed from his scalp until he could bleed no more. He wanted to explode into a million tiny pieces and never be put back together again. He wanted—

Fuck, he didn't know _what_ he wanted. The girl might as well have been dangling a dead mouse above a hungry cat.

Somehow, she had managed to reach inside him and reveal his darkest secret, one he had buried deep inside since he was a kid. He knew, as he stood there with his hands tangled in his hair, that he should go back to the prison and have a word with her daddy. That he should forget every single word she said and go back to protecting the prison and being with himself, because that was all he deserved. Men like him—dirty, uneducated, with roots rotted through—had nothing to offer a girl like her, except for a taste of chaos. He was a Dixon, he always had been, always would be. Nothing could change that.

So why was he still out in the forest thinking about what she said? He felt isolated and trapped, like his thoughts were closing in around him and his head would burst—but he could do nothing to stop them. In those moments of weakness, he began to wonder what sweet little Beth would look like all round with his seed. What she would look like carrying his child in her arms, holding it close her to chest and singing it to sleep. She was the type of girl born to be a mother, all smooth edges and soft skin and patience, and he could see why she wanted the chance to be one.

_It's not enough to just sit back and wait for death anymore . . ._

Daryl slumped down against a tree and bowed his head, digging his fingers deeper into his skull, angry at himself for the way he was feeling, for the way she was making him feel.

"Fuckin' sick," he muttered to himself. And suddenly, because old habits died hard (even if the old habit wasn't technically alive anymore), he slapped himself upside the head. It was angry, fast, and hard. His old man had done that often, whenever Daryl was caught doing something like peeking on a neighbor girl in the shower, or stealing a beer. His sperm donor of a father pretty much looked for any excuse to hit him. "Stupid piece'a _shit_." He spat out the last word, a long string of saliva splashing onto the forest floor, hitting himself once more hard, and for good emphasis.

When he finally looked back up, it was to stare at the moon slowly rising into the sky.

_Damn it, Beth. What the fuck have you done?_

_____________________________________________________________________

"'You sure you're alright?"

Beth immediately nodded her head in response. "I'm fine, Maggie, really," she lied, even as her heart thudded painfully against her ribs in a panic that wasn't even beginning to ebb. In the back of her mind, she thought back to the library and felt her heart thud faster.

_Maybe I am crazy._

Beth pushed her curls back from her forehead, suddenly nauseous. "I'm gonna go check on, Judy," she murmured.

Maggie nodded slowly, a bit suspicious, as Beth got up from mess hall's bench, immediately moving towards the hallway and up the stairs to her cell. She was already fighting back the tears that were threatening to rise to the surface. She cried far too much these days as it was, but she could do little to stop them. Not after what she'd done.

Daryl had been gone five days.

And everyone was in a panic.

The archer had never left the prison without back up, and if he did, it was usually to go hunting—but never for this long, never without telling Rick or Carol where he was going. He had completely disappeared . . . and only Beth knew why. Guilt and worry, along with heavy doses of humiliation, had become Beth's main three emotions as of late. And in the days that followed Daryl's disappearance, time was as unforgiving as it had always been. Beth's behavior changed little. She remained active with the prison children and continued to help with laundry, cooking, cleaning, and baby-duty, but in the comfort of her cell, she had become withdrawn and reserved. She found ways to put up barriers and could hardly talk to anyone without feeling like she was about to burst into tears.

Because in the end, _she_ was the reason Daryl had left, _she_ was the reason their food supply was slowly slipping away, _she_ was the reason they had become vulnerable.

And the jolt of realization that made Beth's heart stop, and she felt as if her lungs had been punctured with a sharp knife, all the air rushing out at once. She scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, her legs like jelly as she sprinted to her cell, and by the time she had closed her bars, checked on Judith and was sinking beneath her covers, she felt more emotions than a normal seventeen year-old girl should ever have to feel at one time—worry, hurt, guilt, fear.

Because of her, she had not only driven away one of the prison's protectors, but also a friend. Someone people would miss and mourn over—someone _she_ would miss and mourn over. Even though they hadn't exactly been close, Beth had admired Daryl down to the very last pore. He was someone she aspired to be like: strong and fearless and brave . . .

And _she_ was the one who had pushed him to leave.

Tears burned at the back of Beth's eyes, and with a choked sob she threw her covers over her head and burrowed into her mattress, curling into a ball. There were some shouts from below her cell, but she ignored them, burying herself deeper into the comfort of her thin blankets.

She fell asleep crying, arms wrapped around herself in comfort.

_____________________________________________________________________

Beth was startled awake by the sound of her cell door creaking open.

At first she chose to ignore it, but when she heard light footsteps approaching the side of her bed, she slowly turned, thinking it might be Rick coming to check on Judith. She pried away the blankets that had gotten stuck to her sticky cheeks and squinted past sleep hazed eyes to stare up at the broad form standing in the middle of her cell.

Only it wasn't Rick.

Beth immediately jolted into full awareness and her heart stopped, point blank.

"Daryl?" she croaked, voice laced with disbelief. She pushed off the rest of the covers and sat up onto her knees, unable to stop the smile that stretched over her lips, tear-swollen eyes squinting in her joy and relief. "You're ba—"

"Why d'you wanna baby?"

Beth stared at him, shocked silent by his question. Her brows furrowed and she took a moment to look at him, really look at him, eyes wandering over his hunched form under the dim light of the candles sitting in the corner.

Daryl had always looked tired, but now he looked _exhausted_ —heavy bags under his eyes, clothes covered in filth, body sagging like he had the sky's weight resting on each shoulder. There were cigarette burns on his arms (some, God save us, looking eerily fresh) and his knuckles were covered in dried blood, scabs only barely beginning to grow over the torn skin.

_Had she driven him to this?_

Beth let out a shaky breath, reaching out a hand. "Daryl, are you alri—"

He immediately cut her off, voice so harsh she flinched. "Why d'you wanna baby?" he stepped forward and Beth's eyes flickered over to Judith, who was still sleeping peacefully in her crib.

She sighed somewhat breathy, already feeling flustered and unsure of herself. She hated herself for not knowing how to respond. Even more, she hated that she didn't know if she could respond even if she did have something to say. She'd already said her piece in the library but Daryl seemed to be want to hear something more, though she wasn't sure what. She barely managed to swallow the uncomfortable lump of self-doubt that had formed in her throat before opening her mouth.

"I . . ." she paused again, feeling awkward sitting in the middle of her floral bedding while he stood in front of her—all rough hands and pitted cheeks and dark, hooded eyes. But there was also something more, something desperate, something that reminded Beth of a small, confused boy looking for something to grasp onto.

And it was that spark, that twinkle of vulnerability, that gave Beth the strength to speak from the heart.

"We're all goin' to die sometime, just like before," she began in a low murmur. "So we should live every moment to the fullest, so we don't have to feel any regret when we go. I could die twenty-years from now, or even tomorrow, but . . . I don't wanna die knowin' I didn't even try." She paused. "I guess . . . I know it's a bit selfish, but I know the baby will be loved." A lump formed in Beth's throat at the emotion she felt flaring in her heart, at the truth she felt over those last seven words. " _It'll be loved so, so much_ ," she finished in a whisper, staring him straight in the eye, wanting him to see how serious she was.

Daryl stared back for a few moments before looking away, eyes wandering over the the sleeping baby in the corner. She watched his brows furrow, lips pulled into a tight frown.

When he turned back to her, she felt her breath hitch at the emotion swirling around in the smoky orbs.

"I'll . . ." he paused, suddenly looked stiff and uncomfortable, his Adam's apple bobbing against his throat when he swallowed. "I'll do it."

Beth felt like someone had socked her in the stomach, all the air in her lungs rushing out at once.

"W-What?" she choked.

He stared at her.

And just like that, all the puzzle pieces fell into place.

Before Beth even realized what she was doing, she was throwing her arms around Daryl's shoulders, bursting into happy-tears as she plastered herself to his front, feeling like her entire body was floating. Her bones went weak in her euphoria, and she slumped into his arms, letting him cradle her as she cried and laughed into his filthy-shirt with abandon right there in the middle of her cell.

Daryl stood stiff, hesitating for only a moment before his arms found their way around her and he held her close to him.

"I ain't never been a daddy before," he mumbled softly, breath tickling the top of her head. "Don't know if I'll be good at it."

Beth pulled back and stared up at him with a wet smile, blonde hair sticking to flushed cheeks as she laughed breathlessly.

Her eyes though . . . they _burned_ with something fierce.

"You will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _there are a lot of things left unsaid in this chapter, but not to worry, they'll be talking more about the situation next chapter. but this story will be moving quite quickly (i don't want it to be more then twenty chapters) so if you're into slow-burns, this probably isn't the story for you._

**Author's Note:**

> _Please review!_


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